Death Trap by Ananya S Guha

So kill them
since they look different
a pint of beer tastes better
after death, after you have
licked blood. So you don’t
want them to work in your
country? You want them
to carry trolleys,or swing
the broom? Whatever it
is your memory is pretty
tainted. You and your people
came once, when the land was fertile
now febrile, so cut out this claptrap
and wait for the death trap.

Law by Ananya S Guha

Now block people from
entering  a country
as they snatch guns
also jobs
so let others snatch
guns will be more available
as well as jobs
let them use guns
to snatch jobs
which they never got
then how will you legislate?
if jobs and guns are equal?
Tell you what
smash all the jobs
have only market survey
for guns, import and export
then build houses with them
promote tourism
protect restaurants, hotels
schools, colleges, encourage
suicides, too many manics
let your gun toting machines
build a country. Stop people
let guns enter,sea sides, resorts,
towns, shops, let calumny be perfect
man’s hazards will stop.
Everyone protected by sanguine
laws. To bar people use guns
to prevent them from snatching
your work, use guns.
They will  speak in  multitudes,
crescendo of voices. Law.

National Anthem by Ananya S Guha

Separatism raises a  noise
is a discordant voice
who is separate
disparate
a country’s streams
over the beams
forts and ramparts
whatever departs
I want a homeland
in a water land
I want language
to assuage
rave and rant
with all my don’t
I want a land
not very bland
fertile, febrile
so that I can rile
make them vile
and sing with gusto
National anthem
ahem.

Going to Hell by Ananya S Guha

A legislator   rapes a minor
everyone is ashamed
not of the legislator
but of themselves
people keep silent
murmur, silence is
a better half. more understanding
keep silent. some curse the man
and do some verbal bashing.
but everyone is abash
that this could happen
here!
politicians are mummified
it is better to embalm them
in scathing darkness.
judicial procedures go by the book
he is released as per procedure.
by procedure too, let him go to hell.

Travelling to Moon by Ananya S Guha

The  Berlin wall fell
inches, slow degrees
the Korean will or will
not, but people will die
out of nuclear  exhaustion
farmer suicides
hole out black money
fill coffers with gold
I see a snot nosed
dirty haired child
in the morning’s sun
the hills have refused
him to enter their world
peopled with trees, grass
the morning dew. The
child sniffs at the wind
his satchel is empty
but his mind is filled
with tricks
the Berlin wall has fallen
Kashmir is a crucible
get yourself a sortie
travel to Mars or Moon
it’s better there
ever since Armstrong
paid a  visit.

Treading On Dreams by Ananya S Guha

I tread on stones
breaking into ice
I tread on stones
changing to water
fossil not stones
changing into ringing
gun shots
bullets not water
are they illusions
guns into bodies
bodies into death
rivers  into blood
I tread on them
my eyes cannot
hold,which is what.
At night I dream
peacefully of animals
skinned,and bodies
men, women and children
swathed in all white.
Sleeping peacefully.
I do not tread.
Somehow sleep must
not be disturbed.
Now,I am going to tread
on their dreams.

Fidel Castro by Ananya S Guha

Fidel Castro
is dead
I remember college
Neruda and his poems
I suddenly remember
words such as communism
and  revolutionary
I remember the seventies
eighties. nineties
and the two hundreds
three hundreds I keep
looking at spaces and strands
of time, future in looking glass
Alice and her memories
Long live him
because he is dead
and he gave finally
that golden handshake
to immeasurable time.
In 2016 I read that he was dead
I actually forgot that he was alive
Now I will forget that
he is dead.

Travelling in Ambulance by Ananya S Guha

Many a time
yes many a time
seeing the ragged
child on the pavement
with a whining bowl
feet staggering
hair  as filth
did not hurt
did not wound
I simply took
my  eyes away
like a cricketer
avoiding the rising
delivery.
Then it struck, pained
hurt, and ever since
have been travelling
in ambulances.

Who Martyrs Who by Ananya S Guha

My soul searching
knee battering body
sways,as clods of earth
fall on the ground
thud, I hear there
is war coming
that is nothing new
rattling of  sabre guns
have always made
my head heavier
than I thought it was,
I wonder about others’
how heavy or light it is
thick skinned people
you know this rattling
will never never stop
in  these bare, austere
pieces of  the earth
you  know prayers will
not cease, praying with
one loving with the  other
love death in numbers
who  martyrs who?

I am not a silent poet by Ananya S Guha

I am not a  silent poet
let it be
silence drowned in inner waves
I am not a silent poet
when in the LOC silence
perturbs an entire nation
I am not a silent poet
Let it be
thralldom of  peace
across borders
on borders
no borders
I am not a silent poet
when on  wings predator
searches victims on wings
I am not silent
only silence drowns me
in gasps of  seas.

Waters of Cauvery by Ananya S Guha

Now there is fight over water
bitter, the taste of it has left
foul smell. Only two dead.
The numbers are lessening
in this country, people more civilised
only two, out of millions
the waters of the river cannot flow
into another place. Water is ours,
bind it with ornate temples of hate.
Kill all of those who want the sacred water
polluted. Let others starve, commit suicide.
Water is ours. No left over to spill over.
I love my country, but we cannot spare
precious water. Otherwise we kill.
But only two? I ask, from the other side of a country.
Yes only two killed, but I warn you if more water
is let loose from our side, we will go to the other
and make it our land.
Ours is democracy
Ours is freedom to live anywhere
die anywhere
kill anywhere
Only two, I mumble.

There will be no Blood by Ananya S Guha

This time
running out
rabbit runs out
of time, hare and
tortoise pick up
bullets in hellish
kingdom, man, animal
and birds. Pierce the
sky, vanquish glory
of blood, blood, blood.
Don’t mess around
with heresy.
Be stoic philosopher
of good. Follow hierarchy
be good, good, good.
The blood will spring in gush.
We are running
running
running
after time,
before it
behind it
pierce the dead body
cut it into pieces.
There will be no blood.

Playing Games by Ananya S Guha

yyou swindle them
big bazaars and all
call them malls
have literary meets
call all the super duper
people and in the elegant
debates on nationalism
the hawker will still sell
on those dirty pavements
to wipe the dust with grimy
hands staggering to find
a shelter near those big
super dupers, with their
fat children, unable to hold
a fatter ice cream which
the mother or the father
replenishes. so we have come
to this country from third world
to first, with electronic cities
and games. the children on the streets
play their games of shooting.

Escape by Ananya S Guha

They have riddled me
with bullets in the head,
the heart
the body has escaped
into inertia
zones are different there
time passes there with
flicker of the eyelid
they have riddled with
bullets no not of
the despicable
but of the roundness
of the heart
which has escaped
all  brimstone, fire.

Burial by Ananya S Guha

I have torn the white horse
shreds of blood, in the
maverick self
pools of it black spots
on a hearse
I have broken its back
in milling crowds
they were not gun shots
( I don’t use guns)
I only pierce eyes of the wolf
or head of a pigeon
I have stabbed the horse
white white horse
and today its colours keep
changing in the blow sands
of time. It still lives
though I’ve pierced and beheaded
gave it a burial.

Humbug of Death by Ananya S Guha

Whenever riots take place
( in India), bird’s nests soften
how often
the heart is the matter
and matter dirt, filth
opening our arms we
squeal at redness of blood
human good
and whenever there is spiralling of bullets
graves open themselves
horizons of death.
there is a third degree assailant
fourth degree torture
variation in  names- jungle to jungle
militants, terrorists, extremists
assortments of fire
humbug of  death.